


Spy Tea

by cincoflex



Series: Roger and Hyacinth [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Candy, Gen, Honeydukes, Tea, puddifoot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-04-15 08:04:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4599108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex/pseuds/cincoflex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roger and Hyacinth are on a mission; tea minus and counting--</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The November chill blew its way up High Street, and gusts made the thatching on every shop in Hogsmeade rustle, but warm inside Honeydukes, Hyacinth watched as the last of the weekend visit students struggled out the door, bags in hand. She finished with the display in front of her as she wondered where she’d left her coat.

It was going to be a cold walk back to the school, she knew.  
“Well done, well done,” Ambroisus told his niece. “You’ve got the knack of stacking those choco-bites. Never could do it, meself.”

Hyacinth grinned, wiped her hands on the apron before untying it, and would have said something but she noticed her uncle was staring out the big picture window, his expression thoughtful. Following his gaze, she noted him looking across the road at the post office, although there didn’t seem to be much going to warrant the attention. “Uncle?”

“Hmmmm. Puddifoot’s been getting a lot of packages,” he murmured. “Cakes, to my way of thinking. She’s sending out for ‘um, and that’s all right, but I’ve heard tell she’s been offering chocolates as well. Not too sure about that.”

“No,” Hyacinth interjected, startled. “That’s not right! It’s a tea shop!”

Her uncle turned to her and gave a sigh. “Times change, my girl. There’s some that think I charge too much as it is. And Madam, well, not as many students going to her shop nowadays. Gotta do something to drum up business I suppose. Still . . . it cheeses me off she’d undercut me with sweets.” He leaned closer, his expression grim. “And some are our _own_ sweets, if I’m hearing right.”

“Are you sure?” Hyacinth gently hung the apron up behind the door and looked at her uncle. She’d heard a few rumors herself, but if they were true, this could be worrying. “We should check.”

Uncle Ambrosius shot her an amused look. “She knows your auntie and me, but _you_ could,” he agreed. “No law against it, I suppose. Delicata Puddifoot’s always been a sly puss, even as a girl, though, and storming right in would get you treated like a nutter, or worse, sent on your way with a Memory Charm. Best to just go and have a cuppa as you look around _if_ you’re going to do it.”

“Yes,” Hyacinth agreed, thinking hard. “I could do that. And if she IS selling Honeydukes sweets, what then?”

“I’d just have to have a chat with her,” her uncle shrugged. “We’re both in business; doesn’t mean we can’t come to some agreement, eh?”

Hyacinth nodded, her mind already at work. She managed to find her coat, kiss her relatives goodbye and make her way past the Shrieking Shack before she realized the one flaw in the plan to spy on Madam Puddifoot’s establishment.

She didn’t have a partner. 

Madam Puddifoot’s had been well-established as _the_ place to take your sweetheart, and every Hogsmeade weekend saw couples going hand-in-hand up the road towards it. Hyacinth herself had only passed by the building once, but she remembered that the tables had two chairs each, and that it was full of bows, frills, and hearts.

Immediately she considered who she might recruit into going with her. Roger was the obvious choice, but his weekends were so full of homework and practice and field trips with Professor Flitwick that she wasn’t sure he’d have enough free time to go. 

So that left either Winston, or possibly Boris.

They’d both be willing once they knew the mission, Hyacinth sensed. Winston had a strong sense of justice under his nurturing exterior. He was a natural at arbitration among squabbling students and practically lived the motto ‘play fair.’

Boris would be more fun, though. His sense of mischief made him much more appealing as a companion, and certainly his size would make Madam Puddifoot think twice about attempting any Charms or Hexes. And outside of herself, Boris would definitely be able to tell Honeyduke’s chocolate from other brands.

The long walk back to Hogwarts chilled her thoroughly, and by the time she stepped into the front hallway, she longed for a mug of something hot. Most students were done with dinner but it didn’t bother her; as a Hufflepuff Hyacinth had not only access to the kitchen but also a fondness for the House Elves, who felt a reciprocal affinity for her House. 

Gryffindors might be brave, Slytherins ambitious, and Ravenclaws clever, but Hufflepuffs were always well-fed.

Once she made it to the Common room, Winston gave her a stern look. “I’m cold just looking at you! Hot chocolate with peppermint?”

Hyacinth nodded, and settled into one of the squashier chairs at the edge of the fireplace, kicking off her boots and stretching her toes out towards the heat. “Yes, thanks. I think it’s going to snow tonight.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. With luck our Herbology class will be in the greenhouse and not out in the north meadow. Here,” Winston offered up a chipped mug of something that smelt delicious.   
Gratefully Hyacinth murmured her thanks and took it, savoring the taste. She sat there for nearly an hour and finally went to bed, still debating what course of action to take.

*** *** *** 

Roger looked up guiltily as Professor McGonagall cleared her throat, and he blushed.

“I repeat, Mr. De Malinbois, please show us your attempt.”

He glanced at the little envelope on his desk, and tried to concentrate. Waving his wand, he murmured what he hoped was the correct spell, and immediately a surge of grey-green engulfed the desktop. When the cloud dissipated, a large, bored snail sat there, antenna swinging slowly. The class gave an approving murmur, and the professor came closer to examine the snail, peering over the top of her square lenses at the creature.

“A fair attempt, although your snail still has a wax seal on the center of its whorl,” she pointed out. In a lower voice meant for him alone, McGonagall added, “I expect as much of your attention to my lessons as to those your other teachers. Luck will get you only so _far,_ Mr. De Malinbois.”

Roger nodded, well-aware that her rebuke was milder than it could have been. McGonagall moved past him to call on another student, leaving him to push an incriminating little scrap of paper with the musical notations out of sight. Next to him, Renata gave a little chuckle, reaching to pick up the snail.

“You’re lucky she likes you,” came the whisper. “Is this a treble clef stamped on the wax?”

Roger checked, and winced. “Yes.”

“Oi, yes, I’d say you _were_ pre-occupied then,” she nodded, and tucked the gastropod into a pocket, adding, “I’ll set him loose down at the lake.”

“Thanks,” Roger replied, “I read up on how to turn mail into a snail, but not, er, the reverse. So I suppose he’s better off in the lake than in the clutches of an owl.”

“Too right,” Renata agreed. “So what’s going on in that noggin of yours anyway?”

Roger shot a look over his shoulder, but McGonagall was too busy trying to deal with a desktop full of manila-colored baby frogs to pay any attention to him. “The hols, mostly. Not looking forward to going home.”

“Everyone there still giving you bosh about music?” Renata empathized. “You’d think they’d be thrilled to have a prodigy in the family. My uncle would be dropping your name everywhere at the Ministry if you were _my_ sib.”

“Thanks,” Roger managed a smile. 

Renata picked up her envelope and rattled it a bit before speaking again. “You’re lucky, De Malinbois; you _know_ what you were meant to do because you’re already on the right path. The rest of us . . .” she gave a shrug, “we’re still sorting out our mail from our snail, so to speak. I mean I like _loads_ of what we’re studying, but nothing’s really grabbed me.”

Roger gave her a wry look. “We’ve got years to go yet. And just because I love music doesn’t mean I’ll go into it. Not if my father has his way.”

Which was the crux of the matter, of course. Roger knew perfectly well that his Christmas holiday would consist of his parents sniping around him, using his future as a constant irritant. They’d been doing it for years and the added strain of Professor Flitwick’s special classes would elevate that yearly torment to dire levels.

“That bad?” Renata lowered her voice.

“They’re generally like that, but the holidays . . . when everyone’s supposed to be full of good cheer, well . . .” Roger trailed off uncomfortably. 

Renata shook her head and gave Roger a pat with her free hand as McGonagall strode back up to the front of the classroom, her lips pursed. 

“All right then. While the majority of you managed your transformations with decent results, there are a few others who would benefit from a bit more focus. Dismissed.”

Nearly twenty minutes later Roger met up with Hyacinth in the library, arriving at the big round table near the west window. He noticed that Winston and Boris were with her, but neither of them was studying. Winston had his wand out and was balancing it on his index finger while Boris attempted the same trick, but on his nose.

“Ah the grueling task of study,” Roger murmured loftily as he seated himself at the table. He caught them by surprise, and both boys lost control of their wands, with a resulting clatter of wood on stone floor that echoed through the library.

Like a gaunt ghost, Madam Pince glided over and glared. Satisfied with everyone’s meek expression, she drifted away, and Hyacinth shook her head. “Boys and their wands.”

“Now, now,” Winston chided gently, “just a bit of fun.”

“And this place could use it,” Boris added in support.

“Libraries aren’t made with fun in mind,” Hyacinth sighed, resting a hand on a particularly dusty book on the table. “But that’s neither here nor there. I have a favor to ask of you three. Well at least one of you three, although if anyone else wants to be part of it that’s fine too, but I need at LEAST one because that will make two it with me added, and two’s the smallest I can get away with for what I need done. Got it?”

All three boys looked at her with exactly the same expression.

“No,” Roger volunteered for the group. “Let’s break it down, shall we? You need a favor.”

“Yes,” Hyacinth nodded.

“And you need at least one of us, but more would be fine.”

“Yes.”

“What’s the favor?” Roger asked, and swore that Hyacinth blushed as he did so.

“I need . . . an alibi. And a cohort.”

“I could be a cohort,” Winston volunteered, “since I’m getting practice in it right now.”

“I too, can co-hort,” Boris announced. “I can even ca-hoot, if necessary.”

“Ca-hoot? That’s not a verb!” Roger muttered. “A person can be IN cahoots, but doesn’t actually, you know, cahoot.” He had visions of owls, suddenly.

Owls that looked like Boris, all hooting together. In harmony.

“But cohorting, that’s a thingummie—verb, right?” Winston wanted to know, breaking into his reverie. “A doable thing?”

“No,” Hyacinth sighed. “A cohort is just a mate along for the ride. Or in this case, the tea.”

“Tea. I approve already,” Winston beamed.

“Not regular tea. Um . . . Puddifoot tea.”

NOW one could hear a pin drop in the library. One could hear the glide of ghosts in the sudden silence. Roger thought he could hear the very bricks of Hogwarts creaking around them.

“P-puddifoot?” Winston spluttered, going red. “But that’s for--”

“Co-horts?” Boris finished. “Da?”

“Couples,” Roger corrected, his gaze still on Hyacinth. “What _are_ you up to, Miss Moffett?”

She took a breath and explained herself, talking about her uncle, the shop, the situation with consumer competition among wizards in general and Hogsmeade in particular. Roger nodded, and noted that the other two were following along as well, growing indignant on her behalf. When Hyacinth finally finished with, “and that’s why I need to go to Puddifoot’s this weekend,” all of them nodded.

“Yes, of course,” Winton agreed. “If what your uncle thinks is true, then Madam Puddifoot has some cheek!”

Boris shook his head. “To take someone else’s food and claim it, this is not right. This is . . . cheating.”

“It certainly is,” Roger agreed. “IF that’s the case. What if it isn’t Honeyduke’s merchandise at all, ‘Cinth? What then?”

She looked up, and her expression struck him as almost sad. “Roger, Roger, Roger-- there are precisely three magical confectioners in England, and I’ve tasted chocolate made by _each_ of them. I'll know who's it is.”

“Honeydukes,” Winton murmured, “Fortesque, yes?”

“Honeydukes yes, Fortesque, yes, and the third one is a little shop in Rempstone that does creams, barks and toffees. The Bashful Bee, it’s called. They run an ad in the Daily Prophet sometimes during the holiday season.”

“I’ve seen it! I think my auntie orders Christmas hampers from them!” Winston smiled. “They do the little ribbon candy that you can actually untie, right?”

Hyacinth nodded, even though she was still looking at Roger. Disappointed that he’d doubted her, he knew.

“Sorry, you _are_ the expert,” he acknowledged. “So what if Madam Puddifoot makes her own candy?”

“We’ll _know_ it,” Hyacinth shrugged. “I’ve talked to a few people and they say the tea’s forgettable, and that generally the sweets are too, but lately things are much better. So _I_ say we go find out for ourselves.”


	2. Chapter 2

Delicata Tatiana Malifica Puddifoot left Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry determined to make her mark in the world. 

The world had different ideas.

A good part of it had been her own fault, and over time Delicata had come to realize this, but the girl of forty years ago had no inkling of how misfortune, complications, and sheer bad luck would grudgingly bring her back to Hogsmeade within a year with little more than a tattered deed to a defunct herb shop, the legacy of an ancient aunt.

The Slytherin in her had sneered at the decrepit building, but Delicata had also learned to rein in that part of herself and look for what money she could make from the place. ‘Not much’ was her first assessment as she walked through the cramped, dark shop. Her auntie Grizella had been of the ‘quaint storybooke shoppe’ influence, and the place still smelt strongly of thyme and powdered mandrake. Spiders the size of Galleons hung from the rafters, taunting her, and every step on the ancient flooring creaked. Puddles there too. Undoubtedly the roof would need re-thatching, and the walls would have to be treated with _Mrs. Scower’s Magical Mess Remover_ to take out whatever essences had soaked through them over the ages.

Still, the shop was in a good location, just off the left turn of the High Street, protected from the breezes off the lake by the trees. The big front window was dusty but still intact, probably toughened with charms against breakage, and there was a good sized apartment over the whole place as well.

Delicata had stretched herself out on the stained stone counter, crossed her hands behind her head and thought hard about what to do. 

Hogsmeade had no need of an herb shop; between owls, Floo powder and Apparation most of the Wizarding world could get their supplies without needing to stop in. There were two pubs already, so serving up butterbeer and related tiffin was out and in any case, Delicata had _no_ desire to compete with either Aberforth or Rosemerta, thank you.

Clothing didn’t appeal to her, and certainly not books, or stationary, and she had no patience with creatures . . . the memory of her last encounter with a kneazle had her wincing and rubbing her rump against the stone counter under it. Sitting up, Delicata sighed when a shadow passed by the dust-coated front glass. Two shadows in fact, quickly merging into one. 

This looked interesting. Moving closer, she caught bits of rather intimate conversation and grinned as she pulled out her wand.   
One good blast—

“— _no_ place for a snog. It’s _cold_ out there and I’d kill for a cuppa before we have to go back,” the girl’s whine came through clearly.

“—too. Just one more quick one then, hey?” 

Delicata held back, running her thumbnail along her wand and thinking. The couple beyond the glass finished their kiss and left, but she didn’t notice for a long time.

Yes. Now _that_ was a need unfulfilled. An untapped market. And, she realized, a never-ending one. There would _always_ be students coming to town, _always_ sweethearts needing a little corner to call their own . . . 

She giggled. It wasn’t a nice sound, but it did have a hint of relief in it and inside, her Slytherin was giggling along.

In a month, Puddifoot’s opened. 

Delicata looked around and nodded, aware of how much hard work had gone into making the place look inviting. She’d fought against her inner desire for leather, chrome and glass, and had given in to floral chintz, to doilies and tea cozys and pouffes. Little samplers of hearts and rosebuds hung on the walls, and the drapes framing the front window glittered with pink pearls and pansies.

She _detested_ the décor, personally. All of it looked like it had been stolen from some barmy old Hufflepuff’s cottage (some of it _had,_ Delicata inwardly acknowledged) and the overwhelming pinkness of everything threatened to give her a headache. But it would work. It _had_ to work because she’d spent every last Knut she had (and a few ‘borrowed’ from various sources) to insure it.

It was all here for the sweethearts: cozy atmosphere, adorable motifs, and intimate little tables for two set about. There were heart placemats and precious figurines on each table, hints of vanilla and lavender in the air, even a mirror with flower petals around the frame perfectly sized to reflect a couple in love.

Sickening. But necessary. Delicata didn’t believe in love much, but she’d been deceived enough times to know what the proper trappings should look like. A lover’s teashop where couples could linger for hours, spending Galleons for a fancy tea together. 

Lots and lots of Galleons if she could work it right. Oh love potions might not be officially allowed at _Hogwarts_ , but a drop here and there in the shop might be handy. A wink and a smile could do only so much, and after all, romance was a lovely thing. A precious thing, worth quite a bit in the lonely world of Wizarding. Even short, stout, witches and wizards wanted to be adored, Delicata knew. The spotty ones, the awkward ones, the ones always left standing outside of the common rooms—they _all_ appreciated what a little charm or potion could do.

And so the tearoom thrived. The other shopkeepers were chilly at first of course—each student only had so much money, and everyone wanted a crack at it—but when it became clear that Puddifoot’s wasn’t going to cut into anyone else’s venture, then matters warmed up a bit along High Street. Delicata made it a point to stay demure, and put a little flutter into her voice when talking to her neighbors, letting them assume she was harmless and mild. Most of them believed she was, or had lost the edge she’d had when at school, with two exceptions: Ambrosius Flume and his wife Sucette.

Annoying, that. Delicata had _never_ gotten along with either of them all through their time at Hogwarts, and there was the Incident with the Burnt Scarf, and the Matter of the Misplaced Cauldron, both of which were fully explainable and hardly any reason to hold a grudge, but there you had it. Some people were too touchy about their things, and others were too thick to pay attention, Delicata reasoned. In any case those waters were well over the dam now, and everyone needed to let bygones be bygones.

Still, she was glad she didn’t have to see Honeydukes from her front window, or speak to the Flumes on any regular basis and that was good for a long while. 

But then came the rise of He Who Screwed Over All Wizard Economy Among Other Things, and Delicata found that although Hogwarts had been rebuilt, and that although they were holding classes again, finally, that her teashop wasn’t bringing in much business these days. The school still had sweethearts, but a number of them only stopped in for their first dates, or only stayed long enough to be seen by others. There were mumbles about it being too old-fashioned and more about the tea itself being less than spectacular.

And THAT was annoying. For years Delicata had kept the same brands of biscuits and tea on hand—mostly Auntie Gin’s Spell-icious jammy dodgers and Merlin’s Magic—and they’d been tried and true. Cheap at the cost as well, and if the biscuits were a little stale, well _they_ weren’t the reason you were at Puddifoots’ anyway. As for the tea, it was a bit old fashioned, but nobody had ever complained before.

Before. 

Now she heard the little excuses and saw the eyerolling as students sauntered by. Out of all the descriptions, ‘frumpy’, ‘twee’ and ‘out-of-date’ made her blood boil. She considered her options and did what any self-respecting Slytherin of her generation would do: she cheated.

Delicata Puddifoot lowered her prices, lowered her lighting, and brought in new nibbles to tempt her customers. Gone were the jammy dodgers and in were the cream puffs, the petit fours and the lovely assortments of chocolate, all crafted into hearts ready to be carved with initials (chocolate, souvenir quill and candy ink all sold separately of course) She added a selection of slightly naughty teas: Slytherin Seductress, Ravenclaw Rogue, Hufflepuff Honeypot and Gryffindor Steady, all of which were simply Merlin’s Magic with different levels of love potions in them.

She tried to keep the costs of her renovation down, and managed for the most part, but when it came to the chocolate, Delicata _knew_ she’d have to use Honeydukes. There was no getting around it; Muggle chocolate wouldn’t do, not for wizards. Getting it was simple though—she had an associate at Borgin and Burkes who bought the stuff on owl order and send it back to her—and with a few quick spells, Delicata could shape the bars into hearts easily enough with no-one, especially Ambrosius, the wiser.

And it seemed to be working. At least her shop was fuller now, along with her account at Gringotts, and with a little luck she’d finally have enough to settle a few of her debts once and for all. Maybe even have enough to go see the World Cup this year in style. Everything was going along just fine, as far as Delicata Puddifoot was concerned.

\--oo00oo—

“Are you _quite_ sure about this?” Winston asked nervously. He stood between Boris and Hyacinth, out of the wind but uneasy nonetheless.

“It’s got to be done,” Hyacinth replied, chin high. She reached for the door handle to the shop, wincing as the tinkling chimes above announced her entrance. Stepping inside quickly, she drew in a deep breath. It was knocked out of her as Boris plowed his way inside, dragging Winston behind him. They rocked a bit, huddling in a tight group and looking around.

A few couples looked up, briefly, before turning back to their own affairs, and Hyacinth was the first to spot the empty table on the far side of the shop. “Come on,” she murmured, and headed for it, weaving around people as she did so. The steamy warmth of the shop was a welcome change from the chilly wind blowing up High Street, and already her muffler felt sticky. 

Settling down, Hyacinth unwrapped herself and opened her coat, taking careful note of her surroundings. The teashop was everything she’d been told it was and yet she still wasn’t prepared for the degree of cloying sweetness to the place. Random showers of glitter and tiny paper hearts showered down periodically.

“It’s falling into everyone’s tea,” Winston observed mournfully. “Nasty.”

“Probably edible,” Boris offered. He sat on one side of Hyacinth, his expression making it clear that the dainty chair under him was not as strong as he would like.

Menu scrolls appeared at each of their settings, and Hyacinth opened hers. The listed items sparkled. It took delicate skill to create this sort of Charm, and she grudgingly admired the work even as she looked over the selections. 

“Hufflepuff Honeypot?” Winston whispered in a scandalized tone.   
“Pffft, that fits _you_ ,” Boris replied. “But I am not a Seductress. It should be something better. Slytherin Sexypants maybe.”

Winston looked up, mouth pursed. “ _Really_ , Boris? We’re in a little village teashop, not a . . . .” he didn’t finish as both Hyacinth and Boris looked at him expectantly, each with a small smile.

“A . . . ?” Boris prompted.

“A place that is _not_ a teashop,” Winston finished. “For Merlin’s sake, don’t draw attention, all right?”

“He’s right,” Hyacinth murmured. “So. I’m going to have a cup of Steady and one of the little chocolate heart samplers. How about you two?”

“A pot of Rogue,” Boris decided. “At least that’s a better name. And one of the big Hearts, I suppose.”

They waited as Winston agonized for a while. He looked up, finally, and sighed. “Cuppa Honeypot, if only for House loyalty, and some cream puffs.”

“No chocolate?” Hyacinth teased. 

Winston shook his head. “It gives me spots.”

In that little awkward moment the scrolls disappeared, and Hyacinth looked around as discreetly as she could. There were a few faces she recognized—the Head Boy for Ravenclaw certainly, and a girl she vaguely remembered from Herbology.

“That’s Clara Pennington,” Winston whispered as he stared over Boris’ shoulder at another table, “and Alec Singh. Had _no_ idea they were a couple. Fancy that.”

“I see one of _your_ friends,” Boris said slowly, motioning with his chin to someone off on Winston’s left side. 

“Yeah?” Winston began to turn his head but just then a trio of cupids circled overhead, each carrying a steaming cup of tea and distracting him. They set them down in front of each person, and a moment later, two more cupids brought Boris his pot, navigating carefully to set it in the center of the table. 

Hyacinth didn’t _want_ to feel charmed by this, but a tiny part of her was. Grumpily she reached for her cup, studying the brew. “Smells like plain old Merlin to _me_.”

Winston topped his with two spoons of sugar and sipped it before nodding. “Yeah, I think you’re right. What about yours, Boris?”

They watched him drink a mouthful.

“Tea,” he shrugged. “Hot, though. Not bad.”

“So that’s something _else_ that’s not entirely aboveboard here,” Hyacinth grumbled. “Honestly, where does she get off renaming things?”

“She’s looking this way,” Boris observed. He leaned forward and laid his huge hand over Winston’s.

Winston blinked. “Er, I say—”

“Shhh, just smile, Honeypot boy, and show how delighted you are to be with me,” Boris urged. 

Winston spluttered slightly, and Hyacinth noted that when he blushed it stood out well on his apple cheeks. _“Honeypot boy?”_

“It is what you are drinking,” Boris reminded him. “And I do not think calling you ‘Puff boy’ would be wise in this place.”

Now Winston made a slightly strangled sound of suppressed outrage that Hyacinth stopped with a little pat on his cheek. “He’s teasing, Winston, all right? Take a sip of your tea and _relax.”_

Winston did as ordered, glaring over the top of his cup as Hyacinth watched her sampler dish arrive. The tiny chocolate hearts were dusted with glittery gold and pink sparkles.

Hyacinth gritted her teeth. She snatched one up and bit into it, closing her eyes all the better to concentrate on the flavors.

Yes, oh yes, definitely Honeydukes, she realized. This was a chunk of Espresso Express, the rich blend of chocolate and coffee as blatantly obvious to her as a neon sign. To be sure, she finished the little heart and licked her fingers.

The second piece was Chocomallow. The third, Mocha Magic. With every bite Hyacinth found herself growing more righteously indignant as she recognized the blends her uncle had developed over the last two decades. These were flavors she’d grown up with, had helped mix and mold, helped to sell.

“Er, sorry I’m late—is everyone all right?” Roger asked.

Hyacinth opened her eyes and glanced up, startled out of her snit. Roger dragged over a chair and sat opposite her, his hair a bit wild from the wind as he unwound his scarf from his throat.

“We’re having tea, “she told him. “We’re fine.”

_“Really.”_ Roger very deliberately looked from Winston to Boris and back again. Hyacinth followed his gaze and immediately understood his skeptical tone. Boris still had his hand over Winston’s, and was leaning over the table, gazing at him in a particularly intense fashion. For his part, Winston was smiling, the dimples at the corners of his mouth dinting sweetly.

“I think,” Boris sighed, “that the tea is very good and that Winston is обожаемый.”

“I have no idea what that means, but it’s adorable,” Winston replied. His eyes were slightly glazed although his tone was still normal-sounding.

“Boris, what _are_ you drinking?” Roger demanded in a soft voice. “For the love of St. Mungo are you sure you’re all right?”

“Da,” he replied, lightly caressing the hand in his.

Hyacinth tried not to smile. “So she’s dosing the tea with love potions as well. Honestly, is there _no_ level to which this woman will not stoop?”

Roger shot her a sharp look. “Have _you_ had any tea? Oh Lord, you’ve had chocolate as well . . .”

“I’m fine,” Hyacinth assured him with a wave of her hand. At that point the chocolate heart that Boris had ordered appeared, the cupids resting the velvet-lined box on the table. A fluffy pink quill rested next to it, along with a tiny bottle of pink and red ink.

Roger eyed it dubiously. “And that’s for . . . ?”

Boris beamed. He opened the ink, dipped the quill and proceeded to write ‘Я люблю Уинстона’ on it in neat letters. He added little flourishes before turning it towards Winston.

“Marvelous, you big lovely bear,” Winston beamed. “What’s it say?”

“It says ‘Я люблю Уинстона,’ of course,” Boris told him proudly.

“Well, there we are,” Winston nodded. “Of _course_ it does.” 

“Oh dear,” Roger murmured, shooting a concerned glance at Hyacinth. “This could be a problem.”

“Agreed,” Hyacinth nodded, stifling a giggle. “Perhaps we’d all better go outside and get some air.”

“Must we go? I’m not done with my tea, and my creampuffs haven’t come,” Winston protested lightly. Hyacinth hooked an arm around his, levering him out of his chair.

“You’re done with _this_ tea, certainly,” she informed him. “And I don’t _dare_ let you have a creampuff at this point.”

“I _must_ come too,” Boris insisted, saving Roger the effort of trying to tug him along. With another fluffle of scarves, loose change and hastily wrapped goodies they began to make their way out of the shop, Boris still holding Winston’s hand.


	3. Chapter 3

The walk back took some time and snow began to fall, slowing them down even more. Hyacinth kept her arm linked with Winston’s and since Boris was holding the other hand, that meant Roger was now on the other side of Boris with the four of them taking up the entire width of the road. 

“I say, that tea was rather good,” Winston offered up against the gusts of flakes whirling around them.

“That tea was mediocre, but the potion in it seems to be pretty potent,” Hyacinth replied. “You do realize you’ve been bedazzled, right?”

“Have not!” came the protest. “I’d know it if I was!”

“Yes, exactly!” Boris broke in. “You tell her, sweet badger!”

“Sweet---“ splutters of giggles escaped Hyacinth and she shot a look towards the three boys with her. Roger shook his head, and his return gaze looked more worried than amused. 

They trudged on, and by the time they reached the front of Hogwarts, darkness had settled in, making the welcoming candle glow all the more bright against the snow. Roger gently pried Winston and Boris’ fingers apart while Hyacinth tugged her fellow Hufflepuff towards the main doors. “Time to go, Winston; you’re freezing.”

“Hadn’t noticed,” came his absent reply as he looked towards Roger and Boris. “My hand was warm.”

Hyacinth noted that Roger was having an equally difficult time getting Boris to go with him as well. The tall Slytherin was staring wistfully at Winston, twisting the end of his House scarf as Roger bumped his shoulder to get his attention.

“Come on, Vronsky, let’s go. I can’t feel my toes anymore and what’s more, you’ll see Winston tomorrow, all right?”

“So long,” Boris murmured sadly. “So very long that is.”

“No it’s not,” Hyacinth groused, and tugged hard on Winston’s arms, pulling him up the steps. “Come on, come on . . . .”

It took a while to steer through the hallways, and they received a few odd looks, but once they’d reached the common room, she made him sit in the squashiest chair and looked him over. “All right, how do you feel? Should we go see Madam Pomfrey?”

“What? No, no, I’m fine,” Winston told her with truculence, “given that you dragged me off from a lovely tea and even lovelier company.”

“You were making calf’s eyes at Boris Vronsky, which is not exactly normal,” Hyacinth pointed out.

Winston blushed. “No I wasn’t!”

“Yes you were,” Hyacinth countered, keeping her voice low. “Winston, you held hands with him all the way back from Hogsmeade, so I’d say you got a good dose of whatever Madam Puddifoot puts in the tea. It can’t be too long-lasting though, or she’d get into trouble, so I suspect it should wear off after a good night’s sleep. I just want to be sure you’re all right, all right?”

He looked troubled, and one long curl dangled down along the side of his face as he met Hyacinth’s gaze. “Love potion,” he murmured uncertainly. “That’s what it is?”

Hyacinth brushed the curl back, feeling a pang of compassion for Winston’s lost expression. “I’m pretty sure,” she told him, suddenly not sure at all. “Anyway, get some sleep and things will all work out in the morning. In the meantime, I’m sending an owl to Uncle with what we’ve figured out.”

She left Winston curled up in the chair watching the fire, hoping he’d drop off soon. At her desk, she scribbled a note on a section of parchment and looked around for her owl, Nigel. He was up on the shelf in his cat bed and peered down at her when Hyacinth whistled for him. “All right, you. I need this taken to Uncle’s tonight. If you’re back in twenty minutes you’ll have chopped liver.”

He preened his sooty feathers and held a leg out as she tied the note on it; the moment Hyacinth opened the window he was out like a shadow, his dark form almost bat-like. She left sash up, wondering if she’d get a reply or not.

Before falling asleep later, Hyacinth also wondered how Boris was doing after his dose of tea.

\--oo00oo—

Roger fretted. What he knew of love potions was limited, and although there were lots of stories and unsubstantiated general information, he wasn’t sure he could separate truth from fiction. Boris wasn’t grinning like a loon or attempting to escape the Slytherin dormitory room; he wasn’t penning a long poem about his true love’s face, but . . . 

He wasn’t himself, either. 

Generally Boris Vronsky was confident and funny, quick with a joke and fun to be around. He wasn’t always the first one talking but usually ended up with the last word, generally at Renata’s expense.

But at the moment, he was lying on his bed, still dressed, staring up at the canopy and looking like some carved stone effigy. Walking over, Roger reached over and rapped his knuckles on Boris’ shoe. “Hey! What’s so fascinating about the ceiling?”

“Nothing,” Boris responded after a few long seconds. “But you know we are under thousands of liters of dark, soulless water, da? A crushing weight with no joy or light, De Malinbois.”

Alarmed, Roger glanced up at the vaulted ceiling. Magic reinforced the stone, he knew, but something in Boris’ tone was unnerving. “Cheery thought, that. Any reason why you’re thinking this? Especially before we go to bed?”

“We need light to survive,” Boris replied slowly, as if each word were being dragged out of him. “All of us, yes? Without it, we die.”

Definitely disturbing now. Roger dropped himself into the bedside chair and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Er, yes. We do. And we have it, even down here you know. Candles everywhere and the fireplace . . .”

Boris waved a hand. “Not those. I’m speaking of the other sort of light. Tell me, how does music make you feel, Roger? Deep inside, around your soul?”

This was getting beyond alarming, but Roger drew in a deep breath. “I love it, of course. It’s what I think about and work with and build my life on.”

Boris turned his head and gave him a ghost of a smile. “You are a lucky person, then. You not only know what brings you light, but you also get to be a part of it every day. Some of us do not get that. And some of us only see the light after it is . . . gone.”

Roger hesitated, aware that his friend was being deliberately obscure, and further, that obscurity probably had a great deal to do with the last few hours. “Boris, um . . . light comes in a lot of different ways. For me it was quick and early on, like lighting a candle; dark one moment, bright the next. I was lucky. But I’ve seen fireplaces you know. Dark and stuffed full of tinder. And you put a spark on it, or a spell, and for a few moments it looks like nothing’s happening. That it’s all a mistake. But if you wait . . . then you see a little flicker start. A glow, sometimes. And in some cases it seems to take bloody forever for things to catch. Especially when you’re in the dark.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment, and Roger wondered if his analogy made any sense, but gradually Boris gave a sigh and a faint smile. “And sometimes it smolders out.”

“Then you try again,” Roger blurted before thinking. “Nobody wants to stay in the dark.”

A low rumble rose up from Boris, and his smile widened for a moment. “It’s familiar, the darkness. But you are right. Having seen light, I prefer it to where I have been. Thank you, Roger.”

Roger rose, not sure if he’d actually helped matters or not, but Boris was looking more at ease, and it was getting late, so he slipped away to his own bed, wondering about the next day.

*** *** *** 

The following days could best be described as bemusing. With the holidays only a few weeks off, the professors at Hogwarts were doubling down on instruction and homework to the dismay of the students. Added to that, the wet, thick snow that had begun over the weekend kept falling, bringing an added chill and misery to anyone who had business outside. Every owl arriving was a sodden disgruntled mess, and everyone’s mail had wet feathers stuck to it.

Roger managed to find a chance to sit with Hyacinth for breakfast and asked discreetly how Winston was doing. Looking up from the Daily Prophet, Hyacinth winced.

“He’s a bit tetchy when I ask. I don’t get it, Rog—we’re all friends. We’re allowed to be embarrassed around each other, yeah?”

Making a non-committal sound, Roger glanced over his shoulder before speaking. “We are, and we are, but this . . . may be a bit more, I think.” He helped himself to hot buttered toast. 

Hyacinth gave a sigh. “I was afraid of that. Not because . . . you know, but because they’re both good mates and I don’t want to lose either of them if it goes all pear-shaped.”

“If it goes at all,” Roger pointed out. “We’ve got years before any of us really know who we are.”

Hyacinth toyed with the kipper on her plate, cutting it into thirds. “And it doesn’t make any difference. Not to me, anyway.”

Roger nodded, and for a few moments they each worked on breakfast in companionable quiet as other students arrived and left around them. Since the Battle, several changes had taken place at Hogwarts, and among them was a lessening of House rivalries. Students were now permitted to sit at any table for breakfast and lunch, with formal affiliation seating reserved for dinner and holidays. 

The thought of the holidays made him sigh inwardly, and he wished he could stay over at the school, the way a few other students did. At the moment Roger knew his mother was probably planning on having his cousins visit, and that with them, Aunt Donna, and Uncle Mark in residence, getting any practice time or privacy would be impossible. They would be noisy and nosey, and by Christmas Eve, after port and sherry, the little digs everyone had been making at everyone else would break into a major row or two if tradition held firm.

He was getting a headache just thinking of it, frankly.

“You all right?” Hyacinth asked quietly. Roger looked up to find her looking at him, and her expression—caring and kind—made him manage a twisted smile.

“Yes. Just . . . still not looking forward to the hols,” he admitted.

“I think you ought to ask Flitwick for a special project so you have to stay,” she replied. “Have him take you on a tour of all the famous musician’s homes, or assign you to visit an instrument maker, you know? Something that sounds supremely important but might be fun.”

Roger blinked. “What? I couldn’t do that!”  
“Why not?” Hyacinth spoke around a mouthful of smoked fish. “He’d do it for you in a heartbeat, Rog, probably give you loads of extra credit for it.”

“But he’s probably got his own family to think about, and anyone I’d want to see is going to be off for the holidays---” He argued, wishing he wasn’t as coldly pragmatic as he was. Part of it was being a De Malinbois, and part of it was being a Slytherin he supposed.

Hyacinth waved her fork. “Professor Flitwick lives here, and there’s time to make arrangements you know. Eleanor Greenhorse told me that her sister’s friend stayed over to help Madam Pomfrey do a complete inventory in the infirmary a few years ago, and because of it, St. Mungo’s took her for their Potions department before she’d even left Hogwarts. You can make your own opportunities, Roger. I know you can.”

Dizzying visions flashed in his head, and Roger took a deep breath, trying to keep the thrill of possibility under enough control to finish his toast. “You say that now,” he shot back to Hyacinth, but he grinned. “Think I should try?”

“Yes,” came her simple reply. “Trying’s what gets us ahead in life, eh?”

\--oo00oo—

Hyacinth noted with wry amusement that Winston had made it a point to devise new routes to each class, and further, that those routes involved a degree of skulking, which he did so self-consciously that she had to hide her giggles as she walked next to him.

“You look very suspicious,” Hyacinth murmured as Winston dropped his chin into the coils of scarf around his neck.  
“I don’t,” he countered mulishly, “and I’ll thank you to keep your voice down.”

“Winston, this is ridiculous. You can’t avoid Boris forever; we’ve all got Astronomy tonight you know.”

“Maybe I’ll develop a head cold before then.”

“Don’t you dare,” Hyacinth warned him as they winnowed through an oncoming crowd of Third Years coming out of a classroom. “If you duck out of class tonight, I’ll . . . I’ll . . .” She tried to think of something suitably horrific, and finished, “I’ll never make another marshmallow meringue for your hot chocolate again.”

Winston stopped, stricken, and was promptly knocked down by the buffeting swarm. Hyacinth gasped and reached for him, but before she could, a large figure reached him first, smoothly hauling Winston to his feet again. The crowds shifted around them in response to Boris’ height, and Hyacinth moved closer herself, caught between saying something and staying quiet.

“Th-thank you,” Winston mumbled, not meeting anyone’s gaze. “Much appreciate it, but . . . go.”

“What?” Hyacinth couldn’t help asking. Neither lad looked at her.

“All right,” Boris rumbled, “but not far.”

Winston finally glanced up at Boris, sighing but at that moment, an impatient voice cut through noise of the hall. “Move it, Vronsky! You’re blocking the way!”

A broad-shouldered Fourth Year sporting a shaggy head of blonde hair sauntered up, deliberately ramming his shoulder against Boris before turning and offering an insincere ‘sorry’ as he stepped back.

Hyacinth frowned. Alec Stowe was Seeker for Gryffindor and a well-known pain in the ass for anyone not in his House. He treated everyone with condescension, reserving his special malice for those who were Quidditch opponents. He’d gotten into fights with the Ravenclaw Beaters during matches and had a reputation as someone to be avoided off the pitch as well.

“Shove off,” Hyacinth muttered.

Alec cupped an ear. “What was that? Shove him again?”

“No!” Exasperated, Hyacinth tried to block Boris, planting herself in front of Alec. “You’re a total prat, Stowe.”

“Pfff,” he waved a dismissive hand, “Vronsky here doesn’t need the likes of you to defend him. Go back to making your grainy fudge.”

“Grainy!” Hyacinth huffed, truly angry now. “GRAINY?” She spun, hoping to get some defense from her friends, only to find them gone and the hall mostly empty. Behind her, Alec laughed.

“He’s gone, along with that little troll doll of his. Oh, and I didn’t mean grainy. I meant gravelly. Better luck, Pufflehuff.” With that, Alec lumbered off, leaving Hyacinth to fume as she scurried to her next class. She dodged around corners and ran, her fury giving her speed, only to skitter into Potions during a pause in Professor Slughorn’s comments, making everyone turn and look at her.

“S-sorry, sir,” she mumbled, and slunk over to the double desk next to Roger.

“Yes, well better late than never I suppose, although it shouldn’t become a habit, Miss Moffett. All right, class, if you will please take a careful look at the tools on your desks . . .”

“What happened?” Roger asked under his breath, his focus on the three knives before them. 

“Ran into Stowe,” came her reply. “Just when Win and Boris looked like they might talk.”

Roger murmured an oath and shot her a sidelong glance. “Was he there? Back at Puddifoot’s?”

Hyacinth tried to remember. “I honestly don’t know. Too focused on the chocolate at the time, I guess. Know what that berk said to me? He said my fudge was grainy!”

“He’s a git and a toerag,” Roger countered, lifting one knife up. Everyone else in the class did the same as Slughorn talked about the importance of an iron blade over stone one when cutting magical ingredients. “Your fudge is better than your uncle’s and everyone knows it. Stowe’s just being an ass because of Boris.”

“You’re probably right, but it didn’t help,” Hyacinth fretted. “And I’m still a bit worried about . . .”

“Winston and Boris? Or your fudge?” Roger teased.

“All of them.”


	4. Chapter 4

Professor Sinestra’s class met out on the lawn at midnight since repairs to the Astronomy Tower hadn’t been completed yet. She’d created firepots in a ring, providing warmth and light amid the circle that had been magically cleared of snow. Hyacinth huddled with Winston next to the first of the three telescopes, keeping an eye on him. 

He seemed more himself, but still quiet, and she suspected it was because Boris was across the way at the third telescope, his head and shoulders above everyone else’s. 

Hyacinth sighed. “Thanks for sticking around while Stowe insulted my fudge, by the way.” 

“What?” Winston blinked at her. “Your fudge is perfection itself!”

“I know. But while you and Boris were busy not talking to each other, Alex Stowe decided to tell me it was grainy—excuse me—gravelly.”

She felt terrible playing up her own peeve this way but if it got Winston talking . . . 

“Stowe’s a bully,” Winston pointed out patiently. “He wouldn’t know a decent fudge if it sprouted wings and turned into a Snitch. Ignore him.”

“I intend to,” she nodded. “So . . . you and Boris all right, then?”

“No,” Winston admitted. “I don’t know.”

“So which is it?” Hyacinth asked as the Professor waved her wand. Instantly all three of the telescopes aligned to north east and students began forming lines behind each. 

“Mostly I don’t know, ‘Cinth. He’s everything I’m not—tall, athletic, handsome, Slytherin . . . and, er, you know.”

“You’re handsome,” Hyacinth protested. “Tall’s overrated, athletic is as athletic does, and as for being a Slytherin, so’s Roger. And Renata.”

“True,” Winston sighed. He looked at her, his face melancholy. “Although I’m not actually handsome. It’s not that, really. It’s just . . . I never thought I might be . . . might find another bloke to be . . . sort of . . . special.”

“Ahhh,” Hyacinth murmured. She said nothing but gave his shoulder a squeeze with her mittened hand as they shuffled forward towards the telescope.

\--oo00oo--

The message from her uncle both amused and vexed Hyacinth; she read it over carefully after dismissing the patient brown who’d delivered it the next morning.

_‘Cinth,  
Hallo from your Uncle. Well it seems your trip to Puddifoot’s showed something was afoot all right. I talked matters over with your auntie, and we both decided we needed to nip this right in the bud afor Delicata gets too comfortable with what she’s doing. I had a mind to hex her, but even though that would make me feel better, it wouldn’t do more than that I suppose. Trouble with a place like Hogsmeade is that we’re so small we don’t be bothered with settling things through the Ministry. _

_Dueling’s more direct, but it does make a fuss and gets a place a bad reputation._

_Anyway, we sent a note ‘round to Delicata, asking her to meet us at the Three Broomsticks, since that was neither her place nor ourn. You could have knocked me over with a feather when she showed up, looking guilty as a hippogriff with a mouthful of stole chicken. We all bought our butter beers and found us a table in the back._

_I told her first off that we knew about the chocolate. Your auntie was a lot more quiet, but she had that look that let Delicata know not to deny it unless she wanted to be wearin’ a pig’s snout right quick. Delicata growled a little and squirmed but didn’t deny it. We let her stew a moment, because I know she was thinkin’ we were going to turn her in to someone at Minor Justice Office, and they’d shut her down._

_But we didn’t want that. Hogsmeade’s a good place, and Delicata’s one of our own. Not a good one, but that’s a village for you. Anyway, before too long, your auntie tells her we can come to an agreement._

_“You can use our chocolate for your fancies and whatnot, but they’ve got to have our ‘H’ on it. Make it small if you want, or put it on the sides, but every piece has got to carry our brand on it,” your auntie told her._

_Well Delicata thought that over a bit, and got a crafty look in her eye. “Can I fancy it up? Do it in curlicues and all?” she wanted to know. The cheek! Our plain ‘H’ is as good as any, and I was of a mind to tell her so, but your Auntie steps on my foot under the table to keep me from speaking up._

_“You can fancy it as you like, but it still has to look like an ‘h’ and not some flower vine or string of hearts. If someone passing by can’t see the letter right off it would be a break of our deal.”  
So she grumbled a bit, and tried to say that maybe she’d druther use Fortesque’s but it was all for show. All of us at that table knew that my chocolate’s the best out there, sure as Merlin’s beard covers his . . . well you get my meanin’ I’m sure. Your auntie held firm, and finally Delicata agreed, not looking any too pleased about it._

_“Not fair though, is it?” she griped. “You getting all the business then. Why would they even bother coming over to mine if they know the goods are yours? What’s in it for me?”_

_Same old Slytherin, I tell you. Here she goes and uses our hard work and then sets to crocodile tears when she’s forced to make good. It was about enough to make me think again about Minor Justice but your auntie speaks up again._

_“Now Delicata, one hand can wash the other you know. We could stock some cards for Puddifoot’s near the till. Maybe some half-offs or such. Might help if you served something other than watered-down, potioned-up Merlin’s Magic to everyone, though.”_

_Delicata whipped her wand out and would have gotten off a blast I’m sure if Rosmerta all the way across the pub hadn’t had hers out as well._

_“Shut it, Delicata,” Rosemerta told her, all firm-like. “We’re friends here, and we’re going to stay friends, right?”_

_Delicata looked mad enough to spit needles but she put her wand away, and your auntie looked like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Part of why I’m grateful to Rosemerta; she’s the one you want at your back in times like these. Your auntie too._

_“Tea’s dear, and most of those little . . . customers don’t care anyway,” Delicata growled at us_

_“It’s a TEA shop, pet,” your auntie reminded her. “Now we know you’re putting a bit of potion into the cups, and that’s a little dodgy right there, but I expect most students know it already. Mebbe it’s time to look into better teas.”_

_And we left it at that, mostly because we were done with our butterbeers, and because we were startin’ to get looks from other folks. I could tell Rosmerta’d heard our deal, so that’s good as well. I think I might mosey over sometime next week and see if the chocolates have our ‘H’ on em._

_Study hard and be the good girl you are,_

_Love,_

_Uncle Ambroisus._

_PS Had customers asking for your toffee. We may need to start stocking it._

Hyacinth tucked the note away, thinking hard and worrying a little. She’d known what Uncle and Auntie were going to do, and while it seemed to have turned out for the best, a part of her hoped things would work out. 

She was still thinking about matters as she climbed up into the Divination classroom and found a pouf near the fireplace. The room was less stuffy than usual, but still held the scent of sandalwood and patchouli, and the steaming pots on each table added to the warmth.

Professor Trelawney floated through the room, wearing her gauzy scarves, and humming to herself. Hyacinth had heard that since the professor’s part in the Battle, she’d gained a degree of confidence in herself. She still taught Divination, but admitted that the majority of her students would have little talent for it, and that while they might never have an Inner Eye, it would still be useful to know the general practices. As a result, the classes were a bit more light-hearted than most, with the benefit of some good teas.  
In fact, Hyacinth realized as she looked at the pot in front of her, some were truly _excellent_ teas. She took in a sip, trying to identify the flavors in this one, and could only focus on the hint of pear in it.

“Like it?” Professor Trelawney murmured, pausing to look at Hyacinth. 

“I do,” Hyacinth admitted. “It’s . . . exotic.”

“Pear and nutmeg, with a few other flavorings,” the professor told her with pride. “A cozy brew for a snowy day, I think. I blend it myself, with help from Professor Sprout.”

“It’s very good.”

“Thank you, dear. Now class,” Trelawney raised her voice slightly. “Today we will review the correct way to swirl our cups. Please have a care that you do not slosh the remains of your tea as you do so . . ."

Hyacinth kept an eye out for Winston, but he had his back to her as he sat with Sanvy, and she hoped he was at least enjoying the tea. When the class was done, she held back, and approached Professor Trelawney, who was making the empty pots float across the room to the large tray on the side table.

“Professor . . . do you ever _sell_ your teas?”

“What? Sell them?” Trelawney murmured, brushing her bangs back from her glasses. “Oh gracious no. It’s strictly a hobby you see; just a bit of amusement for me. But if you like any of the blends we’ve had I would be happy to _give_ you some, Miss Moffatt.”

“Thank you, professor. But,” Hyacinth struggled a moment to frame her words with care, “your blends are really good. I think loads and loads of people would like them. And if you wanted to sell them . . . you could.”

Trelawney gave her an uncertain smile. “Well thank you, dear. I appreciate your enthusiasm of course, but I have no head for business.”

Hyacinth nodded and made to leave. She paused though, and added, “Ah well, I did tell Uncle I would ask. I’d told him about the one last week—the cinnamon and brown sugar one? And he told me he’d love to try it. That and any Peppermint you’d turn a hand to. Now that the weather’s colder, Hogsmeade folks do appreciate a good cuppa.”

She watched the professor perk up, and ten minutes later Hyacinth climbed down the tower with six little sample bags of different teas in her pockets. Hyacinth tried not to grin but it was difficult. She felt like skipping, but settled for a quick stroll to the Hufflepuff Common room.

Some people needed a little nudge, she figured. A little nod to get them going. Maybe, Hyacinth thought, that’s what Winston needed as well.

*** *** ***

Unfortunately, matters did not improve much, particularly when Roger received a howler from his mother. The crimson envelope drifted down and the owl who had dropped it off picked up speed for the distant window, well-aware of the bomb he’d delivered. Those seated nearest him began to grab their plates and shift down the table.

Roger gritted his teeth. The envelope opened itself, the colored smoke curling around the edges, and a low voice hissed out. “Ro-ger Hec-tor Lackland De Malinbois, I cannot _believe_ you want to stay at school over the holidays! Your father and I are livid! What on earth are you _thinking_ by defying us! You had _better_ be on the Hogwarts Express home when the term ends or so help me Morgana there will some serious repercussions to this defiance of yours!”

The envelope exploded, leaving black streamers all across Roger’s plate, and an acrid scent mingled with that of the bacon. He stared dully down, feeling fresh humiliation and resentment rising up in his gorge.

Hyacinth said nothing, but waved her wand; a fresh breeze cleared away the smoke. Roger pushed his plate away. “Well, that was . . . milder than I expected.”

“She can’t drag you out of here,” Hyacinth protested. “For one thing the Headmistress would never allow it, and for another . . . well, I wouldn’t either.”

Roger grinned briefly her way. “Thanks for that, but I’d rather avoid all the fuss. I suspected it would be like this anyway.”

“Did you talk to Flitwick?” Hyacinth wanted to know.

“I didn’t get the chance,” Roger confessed. “And anyway, mum’s put her foot down. I don’t think even the professor’s strong enough to lift it at this point. I’ll just slink home, wear a gaudy jumper for a few days and keep low. I’m used to it.”

It was the horrible truth, although Roger strove to keep smiling.  
Hyacinth however, wasn’t convinced. She dipped a finger into her oatmeal and drew a frown in it. “A holiday is to celebrate, not suffer,” she grumbled. “Right now you haven’t a thing to lose in asking Flitwick and loads to gain. Promise me you’ll at least try, all right? After all, you’re not the only one who . . . .” she stopped.

Roger shot her a look. “The only one who?” he prompted.

She sighed. “Who isn’t looking forward to the end of term. I love making candy, but Uncle will have me in the kitchen from dawn to twilight whipping up batches to be shipped out. Back orders, you see; things to be posted by owl in time for Christmas Eve. It’s going to be murder again this year.”

He hadn’t thought about it before, but hearing it from her made sense. “Ohhh, damn. That’s a lot of work. Why can’t your uncle hire some of the House Elves to help out? They’re still here and some of them might be willing to hire on for the season.”

“House Elves don’t make magical food. They make regular food in magical ways, but when it comes to things created _with_ magical ingredients . . . it’s not always successful,” Hyacinth pointed out.

Roger looked astonished. “Really? I . . . I never thought about it, I suppose. That’s interesting . . . and of no help to you, I suppose.”

“None,” Hyacinth admitted, but she was smiling now. “Still, it’s a bit like you being told to perform little concerts all day. I’ll manage; I usually do.”

Roger gave her a grin and they both began to collect their books for their first class.

*** *** *** 

Matters with Alec Stowe did not improve despite Hyacinth’s attempts to avoid him and keep Winston out of his way. Part of it stemmed from the upswing in last minute Quidditch practices and games; all four teams were constantly using the pitch and certainly the matches were a highlight of each weekend. 

When Slytherin was scheduled to play Gryffindor, Hyacinth made Winston promise to come with her to watch.

“I know you and Boris are still not exactly talking, but he’s going to need every friendly face he can get out there,” Hyacinth reminded her friend. “He’d do the same for you.”

“True,” Winston admitted. “Although I’m terrible at Quidditch. Afraid of the bludgers, afraid of the quaffles. I’m even afraid of the snitch!”

Hyacinth shot him a disbelieving look over the Common Room table. “The snitch?”

“I was attacked by a hummingbird once,” Winston meekly admitted.

She tried not to laugh. “A hummingbird.”

“Over breakfast at my auntie’s garden, went _right_ for my buttered soldiers!” Winston added in annoyance. “Cheeky git.”

She lost it then, giggles burbling out of her at the thought. Winston waited for her to stop, his expression not nearly as amused. “When you’re _quite_ done, I need to borrow your notes.”

Impishly, Hyacinth cast a quick spell, making the scroll zoom around him before settling on the table once more. Winston scrunched his face up . . . and then burst into chuckles himself.  
It was his normal happy self, and Hyacinth felt much better seeing it.


End file.
